


Slow Return

by Starlithorizon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF Molly, Cisswap, F/M, Fem!Sherlock, Female Sherlock, Femlock, Gen, SPOILERS FOR SERIES THREE, john watson is in so much trouble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2014-01-16
Packaged: 2018-01-08 22:42:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1138292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starlithorizon/pseuds/Starlithorizon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John hasn't been to see Sherlock in a long time, much to Sherlock's chagrin and Molly's ire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slow Return

**Author's Note:**

> So this is pretty self-indulgent, let's be real. I love writing fem!Sherlock, or fem!typically-male-characters, and I want to see someone call John out for the way he treated Sherlock in "His Last Vow" and I'm not sorry that this happened.  
> And I can't emphasize enough the fact that this does contain some fairly major spoilers for the whole season.

It was the strangest feeling, to have the blood of someone else on her hands, a bright red stain that had been tattooed above the darker, faded stains of her years Away. She washed them constantly, scrubbing fiercely and with medical determination under scalding water, and while her skin was clean, they did not feel clean. It was illogical and stupid, and she knew that, but still. She couldn't help it.

And then, there was this tangled feeling in the centre of her chest, like a knot of thread tucked into the spaces that a bullet had once occupied. Something tugged on the ends when John was near, or brought up in conversation, and the knots constricted to points of fire in her torso. She wasn't sure what the feeling was, but it wasn't a good one.

To be completely honest, though, she knew exactly what that feeling was. This was Sherlock Holmes, though; dying to save her best friend and spending two years mowing down a criminal organisation for that same friend did nothing to aid her emotional capabilities.

Mrs Hudson was bustling around the flat, tutting at her for Lord-knows-what, tidying up and just warming the space with her presence. Martha Hudson, who was so much more than the landlady and accidental housekeeper, did not begrudge Sherlock the blood on her hands.

A soft knock came to door, too soft to be anyone especially comfortable with her. Sherlock ruled out a tremendous lot of people for various reasons (gentle knocking, patience, not just barging in, no one wanted to be seen with the criminal given absolute pardon in exchange for helping the country bag Moriarty's right hand) and waited as Mrs Hudson ushered Molly Hooper into the flat.

"Oh, hello, Molly!" Mrs Hudson crooned, buzzing toward the kitchen. "I'll put the kettle on."

"Thanks," the mortician said, closing the door softly behind her. She stood awkwardly for a moment, looking for a place to sit, eyes alighting briefly on John's chair (and there were those pinpricks of fire) before she perched on the sofa.

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked, slouching back further in her chair. She rested her head against the seat back and closed her eyes.

"I— Nothing, Sherlock. I came to check up on you," Molly said. Sherlock could practically hear the confused expression she was surely wearing. That was enough to bring the murderer's head up and force her eyes open.

"No one has come to 'check up on me'," Sherlock said, frowning. That stung, truth be told.

"Oh, wow. Well, um, well, I guess I'm not surprised. John is usually good enough at that sort of thing."

A long, slow blink. A burst of static in her throat and something very unkind taking up residence behind her eyes.

"John hasn't been to see me since... Well, since the..." She waved her hand ineffectually, trying to describe the last time she and Dr Watson had spoken. It had been weeks now. Not a word.

Something passed over Molly's gentle features, and it was not some subtle rippling of sympathetic kindness. Oh, no. This was fire burning across her, leaving anger and sadness grappling for control of the scorched earth. Anger was winning, a charred fury sweeping over the land and taking root. This was sympathetic _rage_.

"He _what_?" she hissed, and Sherlock had never seen Molly Hooper look so vicious. She looked like she could happily tear John to pieces, and Sherlock sat just a bit more neatly in her chair. It was a subtle show of respect, but she knew Molly had seen it. Calmness fell over her face once again.

"He must be really busy," Molly said quickly, reaching up to play with the ends of her ponytail. Sherlock nodded slowly, her own hair fluttering around her face.

"Yes," she drawled. "He does have a baby on the way after all."

"That's true."

Molly took a deep breath, looking around again before getting to her feet.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked as Molly began to follow Mrs Hudson around, doing her best to look like she was doing something vital rather than silly busy work just to keep her company.

Eventually, after filling the flat with soft chatter and kindness, Molly said her goodbyes and left, once again shutting the door softly behind her. Mrs Hudson actually went so far as to drop a motherly kiss on the top of Sherlock's curls, and she couldn't even bring herself to swat the older woman away. She merely sat slumped in her armchair, eyes dimly focused on the join between ceiling and wall, and felt fire in her chest because John Watson had not been to see her.

* * *

She stood in front of the door anxiously, wringing her hands like some Victorian maiden as she waited for someone to open it. Sure enough, a moment later, it was Mary who pulled the door open and smiled at Molly. She wondered if Mary knew that she knew. Still, Molly Hooper was clever and she was hardly acting on her own behalf. Though Sherlock had no idea, Molly was here for her, to tear strips off of the good doctor and the bad friend. Hopefully.

"Oh, hi!" Mary said lightly. "Come in!"

Mary swung back to let Molly in, and she caught sight of the other woman's swollen belly. Was this baby a threat or a promise? She wanted badly to understand what was going through this assassin's head, to find out whether this new person would get swept up into something dangerous. With the black storm cloud of Moriarty's colonel hanging above everyone's head, Molly worried.

"Tea?" Mary asked, bringing Molly further into the flat. It was small, comfortable and well lived in, but it seemed sterile somehow. That made sense, she supposed, with John's military background and Mary's lack of background. And either way, knick-knacks and pictures on walls did not make a life.

"No, thanks," Molly said, bringing her gaze around to pin Mary with it. The other woman shrugged and sat down gingerly in one of the armchairs, gesturing that Molly should sit where she pleased. She perched lightly on the sofa.

"Where's John?" she asked once Mary was something vaguely resembling comfortable. With such a curve to her middle, Molly doubted "comfortable" was a possibility anymore.

"He's getting groceries," Mary said. "He should be back soon, though, if you don't mind waiting?"

Molly shook her head. "It's fine. I don't mind. It's kind of important anyway."

"Is it for the case?" Mary asked, tilting her head. Molly felt her face pinch at that, a badge of her confusion.

"No," Molly said, shaking her head. Mary knew that she would consult Sherlock, or the pair of them, if it came down to it, not just John. This was Sherlock's case more than anything; Dr Watson barely had a claim to it.

"What's this about, then?" Mary pressed. She was curious, though unconcerned. She had no reason to believe that John Watson was in a tremendous lot of trouble, especially from someone as mousy and insignificant as Molly Hooper.

"Sherlock," she said simply, shrugging as though it were much simpler than it actually was. Mary, of course, nodded. She understood, or at least thought she did. Did she know that John had not been to see Sherlock? That she was fairly miserable and alone over there in Baker Street? It wasn't fair, and it wasn't what she deserved. Molly knew what Sherlock had done for John, for Mary, for their family. She had willingly thrown everything away and—

The sounds of someone, of John, struggling for a moment to open the front door slashed through Molly's reverie. He stumbled into the flat, smiling warmly but tiredly at Mary before noticing Molly there.

"Oh, hello!" he said brightly. There was tension at the corners of his eyes, though. He hadn't been expecting her, and wasn't that something.

"Hello, John," she nearly hissed. There was acid dripping from her words, but John was oblivious. He shut the door with his foot before taking the groceries into the kitchen. Mary, however, bright and malicious as she was, heard the anger in the pathologist's voice.

"What's going on?" Mary asked, looking between Molly and John. She pitched her voice low, presumably so John wouldn't hear, but what did Molly care? She was all rage and fire and fury at this thoughtless doctor.

"What's going on is John's a terrible friend!" she cried. She whirled, eyes narrowed and sharp, unsheathed blades aimed at John Watson. He stopped in the middle of what he was doing, eyebrows curved in confusion and shock.

"Sorry?" he asked, voice lowly contained. He set down the jar of peanut butter and came into the living room, crossing his arms over his chest.

"I've been to see Sherlock," she said, standing up. She was perhaps an inch taller than John in these shoes, and she used that to her advantage. "She says you haven't visited her since the plane."

"John!" Mary snapped. "Even _I've_ been to see her!"

"I've been busy!" John insisted. "I've got extra hours at the clinic, and I'm helping you with the baby, and—"

Molly stalked up to John as he nattered and rattled off his excuses, raised her hand, and slapped him. _Hard_. She had done the same to Sherlock for scaring them all to death, spending time in a drug den and being _incredibly_ stupid, and she knew there was power in her arm. He reeled back, but she was on him, doling out another vicious slap across his jaw. And one more, rocking his head to the side and widening his eyes in pain and shock.

"How _dare_ you, John Watson!" she growled. "Sherlock sacrificed _everything_ for you. She jumped off of that building for _you_ , she traveled the world for two years to save and protect _you_ , she helped you with your wedding—you were _there_ for that speech! But she went, and she threw _everything_ away for you, John Watson."

He opened his mouth to speak, to challenge her vitriol, but she just stepped even closer, a snarl ripping through her voice.

"Need I remind you of the time your wife _shot_ Sherlock? Trying to _kill_ her? And what did you do beyond run after Sherlock and get mad at Mary for lying? You're a _doctor_ for God's sake! What are you _doing_?"

"Should I leave...?" Mary asked, pressing her hands against the arms of her chair, preparing to stand and go somewhere else. Molly waved her hand, urging her to relax and get comfortable.

"No, don't," she said. "I'll go. Goodbye, Mary."

With that, she practically stomped through the front door and out of the flat, clomping down the stairs and onto the street. She rolled her shoulders back and walked to the nearest tube station, home on her mind.

* * *

She was tired. This case, this necessary evil that saved her from a suicide mission and put her in debt to her brother, it was very nearly too much for just her. It was only _nearly_ too much, because let's face it, this was Sherlock Holmes, but it would have been nice to have an assistant, to have _John_ helping her. But she had gone for many years without him, and she could go for many more in the same fashion.

She hummed Bach around the unlit cigarette hanging from her lips as she traced red connecting lines between photos and newspaper clippings. It helped her to concentrate, even if it would have been better with her conductor of light. But, no, he was busy. He was pulling more hours at the clinic, and he had a baby on the way, and he was fairly newly married to an assassin, and she could hardly blame him.

There was a soft rattle as the door to the street opened and closed. There was no conversation below, no indication that Mrs Hudson had even heard. Was she even home? That didn't matter. What mattered was that they had not rung the bell, that they were coming up the stairs, that they knocked on the door a bit cautiously. They were nervous on the other side of that door, afraid of what might happen when she opened the door.

"Come in," she called, crossing her arms and tapping one finger against her bottom lip. Visitors didn't matter, not really. Even if part of her brightened up at the potential, even if she missed faces that didn't belong to Mrs Hudson. She had to devote all of her attention to the mystery at large, to the woman acting in Moriary's stead.

"How, uh, how's it going?" John asked as he stepped into the flat. Sherlock froze, the pad of her forefinger just a breath away from her lips, the air in her lungs going still. John Watson, who hadn't been to see her since the tarmac. John Watson, who wouldn't be able to take her love for what it was now, who probably would have seen such an admission as something romantic and desperate and grasping. She had seen it before she left, so she had said that Sherlock would be good for a boy's name, much better than Winifred Sherlock Stella Holmes. It was an incredible kindness offered to someone who had taken all of his own light away.

"It's going...slowly," Sherlock said, finally inhaling and swinging back into life. John shut the door behind him.

"All right, let's get started. Let's save London."

**Author's Note:**

> Un-beta'd, un-Brit picked, all the usual stuff.


End file.
